the phoenix

Normally, I pick one word for the year. But 2024 was meant to be different I suppose, as I ended up with three.

Fire. Resurrection. Phoenix.

2023 felt like dying. I turned 29 and it seemed a downward tumble after that. There were many moments I wasn’t sure I could keep going, some moments I wasn’t sure I wanted to. I am forever grateful to those who saw and stepped in, who fought when I didn’t have it in me. They carried me long enough to find my own fight again. 

2024 didn’t fix anything. There was no automatic ‘new year, new me.’ In the midst of this one friend told me that, perhaps, 2024 was meant to be feisty, fire-y, about the fight. And another friend told me how something I had written smelled like resurrection. And that’s what I wanted, to come back to life. To be made new. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes. Letting grief and disappointment continue to deepen my empathy and influence how I want to move through the world. I was asked to rise above, to take the high road. And I was reminded, so clearly, of the sacrifices of the few for the sake of the many. 

Thirty felt like breathing again. Like I was getting to wake up from a sweat-inducing nightmare. It was not an easy breath, but one that felt like I had clawed my way towards. Resurrection wasn’t neat, there was dirt in my nails and my hair askew. Born into a new decade. Time to rediscover who Mallory is, what she loves, and who she is meant to be. 

And that’s what I sprinkled this year with. Moments that brought me joy. Activities that reminded me of what I once loved. My own resurrection. The burning away of what no longer is, of dreams long gone, iterations of me only crafted for the benefit of someone else. 

I fell in love with dancing again this year. I started dancing when I was three. Big Bird did ballet on Sesame Street and I decided I needed to as well. Then I danced for the next eleven years. While I’m sure dancing is something I loved at one point, it became something I dreaded. It certainly wasn’t my strong suit, I was far better academically. And it highlighted to me all that I hated and deemed bad about my body. There is no hiding in a leotard and tights. As I’ve looked back I’ve wondered if my lack of motivation really stemmed from growing weary by the hate for my own body. I’m inclined to think that’s the case.

My journey with dance didn’t stop then though. I took a couple classes in high school. A couple in college, one of them being the only 8 am class of my entire college career. And most importantly, I danced at camp. With silly costumes and lots of laughing, just because it was fun. Just because it was good. It’s how dancing came back to me and became something I enjoyed again. So I danced in the car and I danced in the kitchen whenever the desire struck.

A dear friend had encouraged me to take dance classes again, I had brought it up a few times. He knew I would love it if I did it again, he certainly had. And that’s precisely what I did at the start of 2024. Taking classes once a week, whenever I could, any style of dance. Dancing for the love of it, not to perform or be perfect. Dancing to move my body, to be free. I can take the stress of the week and leave it in the studio time and time again. I am amazed at what my body remembers after years and years of no formal classes. But I have been even more amazed at the beauty I have found in the mirrors of the dance studio this time around. Remembering what a gift it is that my body can move. The delight in dancing with others who are here just to be. My body is capable of far more than I have given her credit for and I’m grateful to learn this lesson. 

My love for my body deepened this year. A lot of it happened in the dance studio. Some of it happened in my therapist’s office. But perhaps the bulk of it happened in a tattoo artist’s chair. I slowly started a sleeve in March of 2021. I thought I was going in for one lamppost, but Jennifer knew I would be back. And I was. Now my whole arm tells the story of Narnia, of books that I loved as a child and love even more dearly as an adult. The art is beautiful, bringing me to tears time after time as each piece was revealed to me. I adore it. I love showing it off. But I love how it has brought healing to how I view my body. 

Sitting in that chair, talking with Jennifer, and learning about how my body has to prepare and heal from a tattoo has taught me so much. I developed tenderness and awareness for my body. A deeper desire to care for her on a grander scale. And as art was added to my body I began to see my own body as art. Thinking about how many people I have hugged, tears I have wiped away, miles I have run. My body has carried me through so much, protected me in so many instances. She is not inherently bad. She is not a problem. And she is not the enemy. Somehow, sitting with Jennifer for all those hours, I finally began to realize and let that sink in. I didn’t realize what a gift it would be to receive an arm full of tattoos, but I’m glad I decided to take the chance. To do something because it brought me joy, because it brings such color to my life. A permanent reminder of goodness, through the stories represented and the stories I’ve been able to write. 

I don’t know what my thirties will hold, not a clue what 2025 will be like. But I feel sure that so much more is coming, the new decade beckoning new beginnings. The last years of my twenties saw the death of a lot of dreams, of a number of “I thought by nows” and the hope to just have it all figured out by now. 

That’s perhaps one of the greatest tricks of adulthood. That it seems like everyone else must have it all figured out. Or at least they sure make it seem that way. We get tricked into thinking that everyone’s curated outward appearances must be the complete truth. 

There isn’t much I feel like I have figured out just yet. Thirty years honestly feels like so little time. But there are some things I feel rather sure about. I know that I am going to keep dancing. I am sure I’ll be getting more tattoos. I know that I will continue to cook and eat incredible food. I am more certain than ever of the gift of community and friends who know and love me well. I know that I am where I am meant to be right now. Where I live, where I work, where I attend church. And I am certain of how deeply loved I am. I have watched God show up this year through the people in my life time and time again. I have not been forgotten. In the midst of the grief and the fire there has certainly been One calling me into new life, calling me to rise from the ashes. So I will. Dusting myself off, passion in my eyes, and a fire within my heart. I am sure that the best is yet to come, things far better than I have ever dreamed of. 

the wilderness

This piece was written at Cenobium at Mission Chattanooga. Creatives from our church gathered to create together around a central theme, Stone. We discussed the way stone was used in the Bible and all the implications that followed. This piece is part of an anthology that is available for purchase from Mission Chattanooga.

The unraveling began three years ago. There was a loneliness and pain I’d never experienced before. I watched dream after dream die. My hand was forced as I relinquished, unwillingly, all control. I was unsure how I could survive, if I wanted to survive. 

Up until that point I’d been promised many things. I had done my part, it was time to collect. But instead of a bouquet of promises, ash was dumped into my hands. Each promise burned away. And ash is pesky, I couldn’t quite wipe my hands of it all. The residue was still there. A painful reminder of what wouldn’t be mine. 

There were a lot of tears during that winter into spring. Prayers choked out in the middle of sobs. In the midst of confusion and pain. Didn’t I do what was asked of me? Did I not follow the script well enough? Dear church, did you not promise my life would be different? 

The Church might have promised me something, but God did not promise me the same things. 

Instead, a quiet voice told me I was entering the wilderness. A word I quickly shoved away into the recesses of my mind. An idea too painful to consider in the moment, laid dormant for later. 

Here I was in the wilderness, like so many before me. I did not choose to be here. I did not want to be here. What was I supposed to be doing here anyways? How quickly can I leave this place?

There was no clear cut answer, so I did all I knew to do. And I began to just show up. Quietly, consistently, and dare I say, faithfully. It hasn’t felt like faith, it has felt absurd. To hold onto what so many would say has caused me harm. To keep going with so many questions unanswered. To walk blindly forward, unsure of where this path may take me. 

Repeatedly I have been asked why I chose to remain in the Church, this thing that seems to have caused me the greatest harm. But really it hasn’t been the Church that has inflicted pain, it has been the people. It’s true that hurt people hurt people, simply repeating the pattern they lived. 

I, however, will disrupt the narrative. 

Maybe that’s what this wilderness has been for. I have felt like a fraud. Someone going through the motions of a faithful life. All the while feeling as though I am truly a garden left fallow. 

And yet, there’s been sacred work happening. In the stillness there has been deep and meaningful reflection. And with reflection came the dying and the uprooting. The wilderness is messy. My hands have gotten dirty as I have yanked at and yanked out deeply rooted lies. Gaping holes have been left behind, a deep ache as I have burned away that which has caused me harm. The ashes, now, a beautiful reminder of what needed to die and be laid to waste. 

From the outside it might look as though I’m going through the motions. Showing up when I am supposed to. Saying what is supposed to be said. And seemingly nothing else. But I know I have been working. 

At first it seemed I had squandered my time in the wilderness. I heard a soft whisper a few months ago that it was time to leave the wilderness. And I panicked. What do I have to show for these last few years? What have I done? What have I produced? Am I even worthy to leave?

Each of these is simply the wrong question. Really, I didn’t need to ask anything, just take a faithful step forward. In the midst of this season I have been a quiet kind of faithful. Not saying or doing much. Simply showing up, in the midst of pain, joy, grief, and celebration. Loving well and with abundance. A younger version of myself might be appalled that I have called this season faithful as well, truthfully I am still uncertain if I should. I came unraveled and I have felt untethered. And yet I know there is One who holds the end of the string. One I can trust. One who has grounded me and been steady. One that I have continued to love and seek after, albeit differently than before. 

As it turned out I needed to be in the wilderness. I needed the garden of my heart to lay fallow, to be uprooted. Three years feels like a long time to be in the wilderness, to be wandering. 

And yet, so much unexpected joy has been found in all my meanderings. It has appeared in surprising places, at unexpected times, and in people I never could have imagined. My tears watered my dormant garden to make way for joy to spring forth. So often I have found that grief is the catalyst for something different and most of the time it is something better. 

Healing has happened in the wilderness. Something that could have only occurred here, when I became unraveled, stripped of what I thought was meant to be or what I felt should have been.

The promise was never for things in this world. No, the promise was for something far grander and far more true. The promise of resurrection, of death being put into reverse. A chance to live, really live. 

When I think of the resurrection I have found that I often prefer C.S. Lewis’ description. A stone table, broken in two. There’s a permanence to it, a certainty that there is no going back to what was. Death itself died that day. Death itself became unraveled. 

It may have felt like death in the midst of my garden laying fallow, but I believe new life will begin to spring forth soon. The silence wasn’t squandered. There has been rest, a chance to replenish the soil. And there has been work getting the ground ready, that time has not been wasted. When new life begins I will see all the ways I can continue to disrupt the narratives, daffodils and dahlias in hand. There is a deeper, truer strength built from the years in the wilderness. 

A friend told me once that I was set ablaze to raise hell and restoration in the world. What a better way to exit the wilderness than on fire? Like a phoenix rising from the ashes. A beacon, to be seen by all and seen as hope that the wilderness can be left. A path paved by light, with the ash of our past falling off each of us. 

would you say this is the happiest you've ever been?

A friend asked me recently if I would say that this is the happiest I’ve ever been in my life. I paused. Took stock of my life and my feelings at the time and told him no. I’m not sure what he was expecting me to say, maybe he just wanted me to be honest no matter the answer. But I left that conversation feeling unsettled. 

This is not the happiest I have ever been in my life. But when was I the happiest? What makes me happy? What does it really even mean to be happy? What about joy? All of this was just ruminating in my mind. I couldn’t let his question go. 

Another Mallory once told me that our name means joyous one. I have found it so interesting to consider that every time a person says my name, no matter the way they mean it, they are saying ‘joyous one’ to me. Me, the self-proclaimed melancholy inclined woman. Joy is not the emotion I would have chosen for myself. I am much better at being sad. What I have found, and what those who love me well have reflected back to me, is that in the midst of my sadness I have unknowingly created a deep capacity for joy. 

One friend told me that because of the deep grief and sorrow I have experienced that I have an increased capacity for joy. And honestly it seems absurd some days to consider. But she was right. I do have an increased capacity for joy. As grief and sorrow have expanded my heart there has been more room made for joy.

I used to think that joy was this big, overwhelming, and all encompassing emotion. And it certainly can be. But joy is so often found in the little things as well. The joy I experience when I get to watch the newest episode of Great British Bake Off. The joy of celebrating a student obtaining his GED. The joy in seeing those I love live out dreams. The joy in making a perfect cup of coffee. 

Joy has overwhelmed me, not all at once, but in small moments throughout my life. I know C.S. Lewis has written a book, Surprised by Joy, and it’s on my list to read. But I agree with the title at least, that I have been surprised by joy. I expected it to be big, but I have more often found it to be small. And the reality is that I have needed it to be small. When the days are long and feeling dark it is that small spark of joy that brings light. And that is what I want in my life if I am being honest. The big joys are great, I am grateful for them, but day in and day out I need the little joys to see me through. 

So I began to wonder if I would say that this time in my life has held the most joy. And still the answer was no. And I still felt unsettled. Saying this is not the happiest I have been and this is not a time in my life with the most joy made me pause to wonder how I am really feeling. I was worried that all I would be able to show for these final months of 29 was sadness and melancholy. I wouldn’t mind it, it’s fairly normal for me. But I have found it is not always easy to explain that to another person. 

Honestly it felt like asking me if I was happy was an unfair question. It didn’t fit, it didn’t feel right but I didn’t know what I needed to be asked instead. I just sat with the question. Sat with the frustration. And just kept pondering. I had lunch with some delightful friends one Sunday and one of the questions we were answering as we talked was to explain something we had been ruminating on. It seemed like the perfect time and space to take all these thoughts rumbling around and present them to someone else. Maybe someone else could make sense of what felt so muddled in my brain. 

And someone else did. I was presented with the words peace and contentment. Yes I could be asked if I was happy. But I could also be asked if I was sleeping well. And honestly, that is a far better indication of how I am doing than my happiness. I just hadn’t realized it until someone else said it. I think back to a couple of years ago when I had a job that caused immense anxiety. I was overwhelmed and unravelling. And I wasn’t sleeping. It took me months to be able to sleep well after I quit that job. It took me months to find peace again. 

But I found peace. And I have found contentment. Despite all that I have experienced I have peace, a peace that truly passes all understanding. A peace that is abiding in the melancholy and joy. A peace that is like a river, flowing through my life, quenching my thirst and sustaining me in the midst of all that I am experiencing. 

So I went back to that friend and told him I hadn’t stopped thinking about his question. And that I had decided I didn’t like his question and that I had settled on a new one. That I would rather have peace than happiness be the metric of my life. 

And I would say that this is a time in my life when I am experiencing a deep peace. Things feel rocky and uncertain at times. As I approach 30 I am beginning to take stock of my life and let me tell you, 18 year old me simply could not have predicted all of this. But I have a deep peace about my life. My life is good. My life is rich. My life has been wholly unexpected and exactly what I have needed. 

There are days I worry about where I am going and what might be next. But I have peace for this day and that’s enough for me. I know that the life I am living is one to be proud of. I once told someone that if I had to describe my life in broad strokes that my desire was to have a life painted with love. To love others well, everywhere I went. And I am getting to live that out. It isn’t what I planned and it isn’t what I thought I would want. But it is good. And it is mine. And I am proud of that.